


The Price We Pay for Love

by SnarkyBreeze



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alcohol, Car Accidents, Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Married Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 13:45:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19442635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnarkyBreeze/pseuds/SnarkyBreeze
Summary: After Viktor and Yuuri's honeymoon is cut short by the death of a fellow skater, the newlyweds must balance starting a new life together, preparing for Viktor's final season, and being there as their friend mourns.





	The Price We Pay for Love

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the YOI Angst Zine with beautiful art by KLY!

“Yuuri, make me breakfast,” Viktor whined, his belabored trot slowing as he reached the gate to Hasetsu’s Yu-Topia.

The morning’s first rose-colored sunbeams were just peeking over the hills. Yuuri, already waiting at the gate, puffed an exhausted laugh.

“You are going to have to keep up if you want to work off that off-season tummy,” he teased. “You have to look your best for your final season.” He pulled Viktor close and patted him gently on the stomach. Viktor smiled and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

“I thought this was supposed to be a vacation.”

The two were just in time to watch the sun rise while their aching muscles soaked in the steamy onsen. They disrobed excitedly; they had been talking about it ever since they’d decided to visit. But this was the first time they had managed to finish their run in enough time, with only two days left before they had to return to St. Petersburg to train.

“I’ve been thinking about themes for my program this season.” Viktor slipped slowly into the bath and seemed to melt in the warm, relaxing waters. He sank down and rested his head on his arms right next to where Yuuri sat huddled over a cup of tea. Steam rose up and swirled around Yuuri’s face. He hummed a bit to indicate he was listening and took a long sip of his drink.

“I am thinking I might my theme this year ‘My home’, Yuuri.”

Viktor’s final season had to be a signature--a fitting conclusion to a lifetime career of surprises. His return to skating had brought him home a season’s worth of gold medals. It was risky even returning to the ice for a second year; Viktor would be so disappointed if he broke his streak right before retirement.

“Home,” Yuuri repeated, as if getting a feel for the word.

“I want people to know that I am happy where I am, that even though my career will be over, I still have my life and love.” Viktor drifted his hand to reach Yuuri’s and threaded his fingers through. Yuuri squeezed and brought his hand to his lips to teach each fingertip gently.

They watched the rest of the sunrise together in silence. Yuuri had brought home plenty of gold medals last season, and he was beyond grateful to even share the podium with Viktor once. But just as had happened their very first year together, the two began to dread the last moment they would share on the ice. For the first time, they had worked together to strengthen one another and had the pleasure of watching each other succeed and grow. The tension of competing was exhilarating, both on and off the ice.

All the same, Viktor’s body was beginning to show signs of strain. He would never admit it, but Yuuri was sure he knew. He could not help but feel worried at what this season would bring for Viktor. He was thrilled to continue skating together, but he would feel at fault if his love felt even the slightest disappointment in himself, or worse, if he was injured. Viktor’s standards and expectations for his own skating had skyrocketed ever since his two students had beaten his record. The wins he had once cinched easily had become a challenge once again. Yuuri knew his self-esteem could be affected. He knew he would push himself harder than ever this year.

He gazed over at his husband’s willowy frame. He was leaning against the wall of the pool, eyes turned skyward, lost in thought. His fingers twirled that silver hair of their own accord.

Yuuri was so in love.

A few minutes later, in the kitchen, Yuuri assembled two plates of the inn’s traditional breakfast. The window into the lounge hung open. Viktor sat out beside a table – his table, the only one they had ever used since Viktor’s first visit – reading a manga he had bartered off of Mari. Yuuri watched him quietly as he filled the trays with rice and broth and fish. It had only been two years since Viktor first sat at that table on a snowy April morning. How much had changed. It really did feel like home. Him. Here. The onsen – not just the spring itself, but the entire resort – seemed to calm Viktor immensely. It was when his head was clearest, his features brightest. Yuuri knew he wasn’t really reading. He knew this time of year his husband’s mind was occupied with planning for the upcoming season. He had wanted to come now, right before training, for that reason. The last thing they needed was a stressful start.

The front door slammed open.

“ _Yuuri! Viktor!_ ”

The newlyweds both looked up in surprise as Nishigori Yuuko ran back to the kitchen in a panic. Her eyes bulged as she fumbled for her phone.

“Did he call you? Did you? Look!” She opened the screen and thrust it into Yuuri’s face. It took a few moments for his eyes to focus. It took even longer to understand what he was seeing.

“What is it? Heard from who?” Viktor called from the lounge. Yuuri heard his book drop to the floor as he stood.

“……………”

“I don’t know if he knows,” Yuuko sobbed. “It’s the middle of the night in St. Petersburg!”

“If who knows what??” Viktor pressed himself in between them.

On the little screen in Yuuri’s hand a gruesome image hung in disturbing resolution beneath an international news banner. Smoke and flashing lights masked most of the wreckage, but one thing was recognizable in the midst of everything: a motorcycle.

Viktor gasped.

The headline was burned into Yuuri’s eyesight when he closed his eyes. No, no no no, this couldn’t happen now.

_Otabek Altin dead at 21 after motorcycle accident._

“You have to call Yuri-kun,” Yuuko cried. Yuuri’s stomach sank like a stone.

“What if he doesn’t know?” he gulped. Viktor gripped his shoulder.

“Then all the more! How else would you want him to find out?” Yuuko insisted.

Yuuri’s phone rang on the counter.

The three went silent. An image of a tiger’s face blinked on the screen. Yuuri thought he might vomit.

“…I can’t do it.”

“You have to, Yuuri—he needs you.”

“Vitya, please! Help me! I can’t do it!”

Viktor answered, and immediately he was met with Yurio’s shuddering sobs on the other end. Fingers raked through silver hair.

“Yuratchka,” he murmured. “Shh, Yuratchka, breathe." Yuuko clapped her hands over her mouth, and Yuuri scooped her up into his arms. “Where are you now? Breathe. Good. No, don’t move. Yura, breathe. Are you alone?” His voice was calm and consoling, but Yuuri could see the worry in his eyes. “You needn’t do that, Yura, Yakov will come to you. You stay put." Viktor snapped his fingers at the two huddled nearby and mimed a phone call. “I will tell Yakov to come and get you. I am calling him now." Yuuri snatched Viktor’s phone from his pocket and scrambled to unlock it and dial.

“I will stay on the line with you until he arrives, Yura,” Viktor quavered, his voice catching slightly in his throat. “No, котенок, it isn’t fair, no." He continued in Russian in as soothing a tone as he could manage, blinking back tears. Yuuri stammered into the phone as a half-asleep Yakov grumbled on the other line.

“Shit,” Yakov growled. “This isn’t what the boy needs right now." His voice was sober and sincere, something Yuuri rarely witnessed.

“Please go to him, Yakov,” he implored. “We are coming, but he can’t be alone.”

There was rustling and clanging in the background—he was getting ready as he spoke.

“He’s barely over Nikolai’s passing in January. This will break him. Tell Vitya I need him here; I don’t know what to do with a kid in a time like this.”

“We’ll move our flight up. We’ll get the soonest we can,” Yuuri promised.

“Huh. Good. That husband of yours has grown up considerably. You kids must mean a lot to him.”

He didn’t know why, but hearing that made Yuuri’s heart ache.

“I know,” he said. “Yakov, please go. We will get back to you when we have plans.”

He hung up and ushered Viktor and Yuuko out of the kitchen. Viktor hunched over the table, speaking slowly in a cautious tone, eyes red. There was silence on the other end. He was the only one who could talk like this to Yurio, Yuuri was certain. Seated beside him, leaning back against the table, he smoothed his hair back down where it had been grabbed. Viktor took his hand and squeezed hard. It was thirty minutes before Yakov finally arrived at Yuri’s apartment.

Viktor went on to spend a considerable amount of time on the phone even after hanging up with Yurio. Once Yuuko had gone and Yuuri had relayed the news to his family, he managed to get his husband started with packing. All the while, Viktor was negotiating with an airline representative. After that, he spent the morning speaking Russian in hushed tones with Yakov, all while tossing his belongings sloppily into his trunk with his free hand.

Yuuri worked in stunned silence, folding and stacking with his head down, happy he didn’t understand Viktor’s words. He needed, in this moment, to focus on the task in front of him. This was too much. Too much for pre-season, too much for the first few months of his marriage, too much for him in general. He hadn’t been able to console Yurio when he needed it most. He felt disconnected, like he was squashed between two panes of glass, unable to breathe deep. So he folded and stacked. Folded and stacked. Viktor was standing over his trunk, full but open, rumpled clothes spilling out from the sides. Yuuri reached to begin to remedy the mess, and to his surprise, Viktor smacked his hand away.

“Don’t you start with me,” Yuuri snapped, shooting daggers from his eyes. He dragged his husband away from the trunk and gently shoved him onto the sofa. Viktor’s hand shot up to comb back his bangs but Yuuri managed a quick interception and snatched it up, squeezing it between both of his own.

Viktor looked up pleadingly without breaking his conversation with Yakov. Yuuri leaned down and kissed him softly on the top of the head with one last little squeeze of the hand before returning to his trunk to re-organize the clothing inside.

There was a muffled beep as the call ended, followed by a long, shuddering sigh.

Then nothing. 

* * *

Almost 30 hours later, the pair dropped off their things at their apartment in St. Petersburg and set out toward Yuri’s. Another sunrise walk—although this one was in no way competitive or refreshing. Gulls squawked overhead as the morning sun began to take the sky in earnest. 

The apartment building seemed to loom in front of them as they approached. Yuuri was not sure he was ready for what was waiting within.

Yakov came out to meet them in the hall, waving them in with a finger pressed to his lips. The lights were off, save for a desk lamp and one above the small gas range. The curtains were drawn, blocking out the sun.

The walls were lined with posters and tapestries. Mandalas, tigers, motorbikes, a few rock bands Yuuri had never heard of. A desktop computer flanked by large subwoofer speakers, a tall, elaborate wardrobe, and a dinette were all arranged comfortably around the space. Against the wall to the far left, a daybed like an enormous sofa looked out over everything. It was piled high with throws, scarves, pillows, and stuffed animals. If it weren’t for a glimpse of silky blond hair from underneath a plush blanket, Yuuri would have thought the bed was unoccupied.

“He’s asleep about fourteen hours,” Yakov grumbled in English. “He will not eat. It’s famine in this house.”

By the light of the stove, Yakov updated them in whispered tones to the best of his understanding.

“The only family who knows him is a sister,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “She informed him not long after she knew. He tries still to contact her back, but no response. I think they prefer to keep quiet.”

“It’s understandable,” Viktor muttered, perched on the kitchen counter. His demeanor was dark. “They’ve never even met.”

“ISU and Olympics have sent their sympathies,” Yakov continued. “Mila is arranging to send on behalf of the Russian team.”

The more Yuuri listened, the more he understood the conflict of priorities in play. Yakov’s characteristic emotional detachment was, in this case, an incredible blessing. It was not so much that he didn’t care. Yuuri knew the young star was Yakov’s pride and joy. But his objective view of the situation allowed him to see his student’s emotions as they fit into the larger scope of things. They were still just as valid, but protecting them would require contradicting many of his impulses and desires. It was undisputed that he loved Otabek, but also that he was not the only one who did.

Yuuri stood and filled the kettle to start a pot of coffee.

“He’s going to want to go,” he warned as he rummaged through the cupboards for a filter. “He may have already booked a flight.”

“I’ve frozen his account,” Yakov replied. He continued as the room began to fill with the aroma of the brewing coffee. Yurio had, indeed, begged to fly to Almaty that morning. Had spent his few hours out of bed cursing Yakov through bitter, angry tears. Had sent a plate flying across the room at him, only to have it shatter against the wall. Had turned down calls from several competitors. Yuuri knew from her persistent questions he hadn’t even contacted Yuuko.

“Already he is threatening to take the season off,” Yakov growled as he filled his cup.

“No.” Viktor anxiously combed his fingers through his hair once more. “It’s out of the question. If he takes the year off, he’ll self-destruct.”

A cheetah-print shoe hurtled into the sink behind them with a crash. Everyone stopped, stunned, unable for a moment to decipher precisely what had happened.

“Can you stop talking about me like I’m not in the fucking room?”

Yuri was awake.

“Get the fuck out,” he snarled.

“Yurio, come have some coffee,” Viktor said calmly. “Yuuri has a cup ready for you.”

“I don’t want that pig’s shit coffee,” snapped Yuri. He hadn’t yet emerged from the pile of blankets underneath which he was camouflaged.

Yuuri chuckled, in spite of himself. He was nothing if not used to the Russian Tiger’s bites. In fact, they were familiar enough to be comforting.

“That’s fine,” he said warmly. “Is there something else you’d like?”

“I want you to get back on a plane and finish your damn honeymoon and let me be alone!”

“Yuratchka,” Yakov soothed throatily, “they are here for you.”

The young skater finally sat up and stretched his back, rubbing his eyes. Yuuri was not prepared for the state of his face. His fair complexion was splotchy and pink, his eyes swollen and red. His hair was uncombed. He was practically unrecognizable from his on-ice counterpart, but Yuuri approached him without hesitation, swallowing down the lump that was forming in this throat.

He sat and drew Yuri into a tight hug.

Yuri, to everyone’s surprise, was entirely accepting of his friend’s embrace. He leaned into it, hanging heavily in Yuuri’s arms.

There was a long moment of quiet stillness. The only sound was the boy’s slow, calculated breaths. He was trying to keep steady, trying to stay calm. Yuuri tried to clear his mind, to be relentless in his compassion. He squeezed tighter, but Yuri’s tears came suddenly, as if he’d been punched, and shook Yuri’s lanky body in steady waves. He bounced back and forth between quivering, gasping inhale and sagging, hissing exhale, weeping quietly and bitterly. It forced its way out of him like vomit.

Yuuri sat, swaying, waiting, breathing. He himself, for whatever reason or another, felt entirely calm, meditative, as if acting as a pillar or a pillow or whatever for the mourning teen allowed him to cast aside his own worries and doubts. He rocked. He squeezed. He tucked flaxen hair behind bright red ears.

The sputtering and choking began to come in the form of words, Russian, unknown to Yuuri but repeated over and over and over.

“Oн мертв…он мертв…он мертв…”

It was easily forty minutes before Yuri began to approach anything close to calm. He continued to mumble into Yuuri’s chest through sniffles and sobs and snot. Like a vigilant prayer.

Viktor had dismissed Yakov with a kiss on the cheek and started another pot of coffee and water for tea. He had busied himself around the apartment, tidying, lighting candles, making porridge, then stationing himself at the dinette with his music and his notepad. Yuuri could see, the few times he’d passed into view, the red in his nose and around his eyes.

Yuri’s sobs were beginning to lose force. His breathing grew steadier, deeper, more controlled. When he finally picked himself up, his face was bright red, patterned with the stitches of Yuuri’s sweater, raw with tears and snot. Yuuri was ready with the tissues.

“Do, uhh…do you still want us to go?” he asked. “I understand if you do.”

“No. Sorry. Th— _shit_ —thanks. For that. And, uh, for coming home early.”

Yuuri sat on the edge of the bed, tending to the stain on his shoulder with a wad of tissues. He hoped his smile looked sincere. Everything was beginning to slant again. It had been easier when Yuri was crying, even when he was cruel.

“Honestly, anyone is better than Yakov. Shitty old man just sat and stared.”

Viktor let out a hollow laugh. “I’m so sorry, Yura. I thought you’d prefer to have space, but I didn’t want you to be alone.”

“…He was just here.”

“I sent him home to rest.”

“No,” Yuri said, staring blankly into his bowl. “ _He_ was—just last week.”

He seemed to struggle with the thought, opening his mouth as if to speak more than once before biting it back and attempting to eat. His face twisted in mild disgust but he forced down spoonful after spoonful. He ate slowly, as if each bite were an afterthought, getting up in between to pour more coffee and find his phone.

The Russian Fairy, dressed in sweats and an oversized tee-shirt, may as well have been a husk of his former self. His complexion was ashen, eyes bulging, brow permanently furrowed. He was glued to his phone, undoubtedly clicking through news site after news site, trying to gather as much information about Otabek as he could. Viktor looked on with mild concern, glancing silent messages Yuuri’s way every now and then, unsure whether he was supposed to intervene or not.

These periodic reminders that Viktor was, in fact, human were comforting to Yuuri. But, of course, he was only human as well, and so the two watched their young friend struggle in tense silence for what felt like hours.

Twitter was flooded with pictures from the 2014 Grand Prix Finale and the Kazakh's numerous Nationals wins. Yuri’s Angels had cultivated a live-update master page with everything that was known so far. To everyone’s surprise, the Angels—or at least the vast majority—had shown up in overwhelming support of their grieving idol, flooding his social media mentions with condolences and words of comfort and curating videos and photographs in memory of Otabek—and of his loving relationship with Yuri. Their fellow competitors had also begun an online memorial of their fallen friend. His face dominated Yuuri’s feed from the profiles of Phichit, Christophe, Leo, JJ, and Emil. Even Seung-Gil had posted a selfie the two had snapped together during the previous year’s Grand Prix.

Yuri tossed down his phone and got up to wash out his bowl. A picture of the crash peered up from the screen.

“Yuri,” Viktor began, but the young skater interrupted him.

“How much do you two know?” he asked.

Otabek had been a guest DJ at a club in Astana the night of the crash. Just two nights ago. He and Yuri had spoken just before he started. They’d texted a few times during the night. Otabek had been the kind of romantic and mushy that stoic men only get after 1am. He’d DJ’d until 3, then strapped his things to the back of his bike and left for home. The spring rain had come down in sheets. He shouldn’t have pressed on. He should have waited.

Yuri hadn’t known about the rain. He had fallen asleep early.

From what they could gather, on a narrow strip of highway, the car in front of Otabek had underestimated a bend and skidded into a concrete barrier. Within seconds it had rolled across into the opposing traffic, where a truck had hit it broadside at full-speed, sending it flying back. Right into him. Without anywhere to veer out of the way. If he’d been in a car, he may have had a chance. Maybe. But a helmet can only protect the skull.

The other drivers both had walked away from the wreck with some broken bones. But they’d walked away. Otabek had been trapped beneath the car. He was dead by the time the responders had gotten to him.

He was dead.

Yuri had awakened to a call from an hysterical Miryam Altin. She hadn’t known much, she’d just cried over and over, “he’s dead, he’s dead, Beka’s dead.” 

“How long before you called us?” Viktor asked.

“Don’t know,” Yuri sniffed, wiping his eyes on a kitchen towel. “Not long, I guess. I didn’t know what else to do. Yakov got here before sunrise so not long, I guess.”

The boy who’d slept fourteen hours looked exhausted. Drained. It was nearing lunchtime; they had talked for hours over the last dregs of their coffee, piecing together everything they’d learned until now. Yuuri had opened the windows and let the late morning sun spill into the apartment. Unfortunately, all it really did was bring the contours of Yuri’s desperate eyes into sharper relief.

Suddenly, the younger stood and cleared the table.

“I never actually asked you two to come here,” he said flatly, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “It’s nice to know someone cares, I guess. Shit. I’m gonna shower. You don’t have to stick around.”

And with that, he stalked out of the room.

Yuuri heard the water run. He glanced sideways at his husband, whose concern was doubly apparent now that Yuri was out of the room.

“What are you thinking, Vitya?” he asked quietly, sliding his chair over so he could drape himself over strong shoulders. “Are you worried?”

He nodded.

“Yuri…is headstrong. He’ll find a way to push through.”

Viktor combed his fingers through his long, silver hair.

“He’s stubborn. That does not make him strong. Yuuri, how hard would it be for him to get around Yakov’s precautions? To go off on his own to a family who doesn’t know him?”

“Miryam knows him.”

“Miryam knows well enough not to tell him any of the family’s arrangements! What if she knows he’ll get hurt? Be rejected? Yuuri, you were blessed with an accepting family. But my loving father would have beaten me into the ground if I came home to him with a man on my arm. And if I were dead, and you…” He spun around and stopped himself in horror at the tears spilling down his husband’s cheeks.

Yuuri couldn’t breathe. The air was thick and hot and nauseating. Viktor sprang to his feet and pulled him in.

“Oh, no, my love, I didn’t mean…” He cradled Yuuri’s head in his arm and squeezed, swaying on the spot. “Just see… we have to protect him." He brushed Yuuri’s cheek gently with his thumb and turned his chin up. Yuuri saw his pained smile through his tear-spattered spectacles and nuzzled his way back into the embrace, fighting back another sob. The mere thought of losing Viktor on top of everything that had transpired that morning had pushed him over the edge.

“You big idiot,” Yuuri cried.

“I suppose I’ve earned that,” Viktor murmured. He pushed back a tangle of black hair and leaned down to kiss the soft skin of the forehead underneath but Yuuri pulled away, pushing his glasses up to wipe his eyes.

“Oh, please don’t be mad!”

“It’s not fair for Yuri to have to mourn alone,” Yuuri mumbled. His face was hot, his hands clenched. Everything grew quiet as the water shut off. Yuuri huffed. He needed to go. He grabbed for his coat.

“Where are you going? Yuuri!” Viktor pushed after him, grasping for his hand, but Yuuri slipped out the door and down the stairs before Viktor could get to his shoes and coat. He needed to move. Something crawled right beneath his skin. After running around the block a few times to clear his head, he showered, even affording himself a much-needed nap afterwards. Viktor hadn’t returned when he woke up, so he stopped by the market on the way back to Yuri’s, picked up some ingredients. A home-cooked meal. The most he could offer.

“Where are you going? Yuuri!” Viktor pushed after him, grasping for his hand, but Yuuri slipped out the door and down the stairs before Viktor could get to his shoes and coat. He needed to move. Something crawled right beneath his skin. He ran the entire way back to his and Viktor’s apartment. How could things have gone this way? Wasn’t there something he could do to help his friend process this loss? He could hardly process it himself, and it’s not like he and Otabek were close. The apartment building came into view far too soon. He ran straight past it and looped around for an extra push, the entire time racking his brain for an answer. He ran up the three flights of stairs and fell against the door, panting.

He hadn’t skated in almost four days. It was there, on the ice, Yuuri decided, that he would find an answer. He fixed himself a quick lunch and ate before grabbing his skates and making his way to the rink.

Viktor wasn’t home when Yuuri returned to their flat that afternoon. He wished he could just suck it up and text him. He tried several times. In all honesty, he was feeling a little guilty about his dramatic exit from the Plisetsky residence that morning. He hadn’t wanted Yuri to see him crying, not that it would be anything new, certainly, but it seemed somehow insensitive to the whole situation.

Viktor would probably tell him that no one struggle precludes another and that, yes, he was allowed to feel and to express—he knew it all already. Maybe it was less that he was concerned for Yurio and more that he hadn’t reached that level of openness with him yet, even now. That he’d needed to stay in motion, to shake the ever-impending vise of anxiety that followed him around, ready to press down upon him from all sides the moment he let his guard down.

He stopped by the market on the way back to Yuri’s, picked up some ingredients. A home-cooked meal. The most he could offer.

Viktor wasn’t there when Yuuri slipped into the cozy studio, either. Yurio’s feet in cheetah-print ankle socks poked out from underneath the plush blanket on his bed. The curtains were open, at least. It seemed much less cave-like in the natural light. Yuuri did his best to keep quiet as he searched through the cabinets for the utensils he needed. He hated making rice without an automated cooker, but Yurio’s cookware was actually very nice quality, albeit a little old and mismatched. He wasn’t sure if Yakov was coming, or anyone else, for that matter, so he made two extra servings to set aside for later—if anything, Yurio would have some leftovers.

Cooking at least had some predictability. The steps of preparing pork cutlet bowls flowed with a satisfying pace—each step allowed him the time to prepare for the next. Very little waiting. Very little having to think. Cut the onions. Prepare each cut of meat while the previous one fries. Put together the sauce while the onions soften. All of this taking about the same amount of time as the rice takes to cook. The finished toppings, once combined, cook in just enough time to portion out the rice. It was balanced and consistent work.

The plush blanket wandered over as Yuuri started frying the onions.

“Where’s Viktor?”

“I haven’t seen him.” Yuuri shrugged.

“He was all upset when I got out of the shower. What’d you do? You fighting?” 

"No, not…really…" Yuuri dabbed at the sweat on the bridge of his nose to keep his glasses from sliding. He sighed again. “He just wants me to be quietly emotional and proactive just like him, and I try, really, but…he’s just got a lot to live up to. And a lot riding on this year. And he wants so badly to take care of me, but I can’t let him focus on anything but himself, at least until the season ends. At least until…” 

He trailed off, horrified. The words had spilled out of him without his meaning them to. His mouth went dry. Yuri leaned on his elbow on the counter, watching his movements closely as he cooked. 

“I get it,” he said coolly. “It’s weird to have another person who’s so in tune with your emotional side. Like…you spend so much of your life dealing with that stuff alone. Huh.”

His answer shook Yuuri from his momentary spiral. It wasn’t at all the hostile response he had come to expect. He glanced up in spite of himself. Yurio’s green eyes were set, serious. 

“Don’t try to make it perfect, Katsudon. He’ll do that on his own. You know better than me that his idea of success is way more than just the gold he earns now. Aren’t you taking care of me to cope with your own shit? He probably needs to do the same.”

Yuri wasn’t nearly as shallow as he liked to let on. And as far as Yuuri could tell, he was right. The Russian Punk gave a grim half-smile. The silence that fell in the wake of his words was not altogether unpleasant. Not even Viktor ventured to break it when he wandered in a few minutes later, two bottles of vodka in his bag. He slid into one of the chairs at the table and put one hand on Yuuri’s side with a gentle squeeze. lid into one of the chairs at the table and put one hand on Yuuri’s side with a gentle squeeze. Their eyes met briefly, a minute exchange that lasted just a moment. A flash of inquisitive concern, a wash of relief. A smile behind blue irises.

No one said a word until three picturesque pork cutlet bowls were on the table, and three glasses to accompany them. As they pulled their chairs up to the little dinette, Viktor cleared his throat.

“It’s been a difficult day,” he said ceremoniously, pouring three gratuitous vodkas. “And the days coming…aren’t going to get much easier. But we can take solace in knowing that they will, eventually, get easier. And until then—” His lips curled into a wry smile. “We can always get drunk.” He slid the other drinks across the table, holding his high, expectant. “Yurio, I haven’t had the privilege of drinking liquor with you yet. Come. Drink. To Otabek.”

An hour later, the trio was pleasantly full and dangerously close to finishing off their first bottle. The tense atmosphere that had dominated most of the day had dissipated, and while they were by no means cheery, the three skaters had, at the very least, relaxed considerably. Yuri was sitting at the dinette, glass full to overflowing with vodka that Yuuri thought Viktor really should have been moderating, when he started asking for help getting to Almaty.

Yuuri should have seen the fight coming. Maybe, if he hadn’t gotten so drunk, he could have stopped it. Pretty soon, Viktor was half-shouting in Russian while Yuri, tears streaming down his face, jammed a finger over and over again into the older man’s chest, hissing his own retaliations. 

“…отвали, мудак, блядь!”

“…нет оправдания быть эгоистичным!”

“Пошёл ьна хуй! Я любила его!” The bottle dangling from Yurio’s hand fell to the floor with a crash.

Yuuri was already deep into what promised to be a day-long hangover. He could feel the room lurch around him as he pulled himself to his feet.

_“That’s enough! Both of you!”_ He shot his husband a pointed glare, swallowing down the bile burning in his throat.

“ _Anata_ , tell him…” Viktor started in Japanese, but he was soon cut off by Yuri’s furious snarl.

“You married a piece of shit, pig,” he clipped. “This is fucking stupid. Get out. Go home. I don’t want to see your fucking faces.”

* * *

The first official day of training, Yakov came down on Viktor with ruthless ire, channeling his anger at his star skater into merciless drills.

“Sloppy! Again!” he shouted from the boards as Yuuri entered the rink. “Have you sat on your ass all summer? Where’s that free leg?” 

“Is Yurio coming?” Yuuri asked as he approached, sliding a cardboard coffee cup in Yakov’s direction.

“I’ve heard nothing from him since that day,” the old man grumbled, his eyes never leaving the ice. _“Vitya! I asked for basics! No more! Again!”_

Viktor looked exhausted, shoulders sagging slightly at the new directive, but he nodded and made a quick loop around the ice before beginning again. The exercise was flowy and unstructured, with a pattern that Yuuri couldn’t quite put his finger on. Double axel, flying camel spin, a modest step sequence.

“A junior division program?”

“One of Vitya’s.” Yakov chuckled. “He once cried it would kill him, it was so boring." He reached back to the bench behind him for Viktor’s skate guards and thermos. “He took home his first gold that year. _Again, Vitya! Once more, but if you rush like you just did it will be three times!”_

Yuuri watched Viktor bite back his words of protest. He felt bad, but he knew better than to step in. Yakov wasn’t heartless, and he wasn’t about to push his best skater to injury. Simplicity was a greater penalty than challenge for Viktor, anyway.

“He will take care of himself,” he assured, a hand on Yuuri’s shoulder. “Believe me, I will not let Vitya down this year." His grip tightened. “But we _must_ get Yuratchka back. I will not lose my top two athletes. Losing _this one_ is hard enough.”

Viktor hit the boards with a light _thud_ , panting.

“You still rushed,” Yakov grumbled, “but not as much. Once more, and then go stretch.” 

They trained well into the evening. When it was Yuuri’s turn to take the ice, Viktor pushed him almost to his limit. His relentlessness was the shining characteristic of his coaching, and Yuuri had grown to love the challenge. He loved seeing what Viktor believed he was capable of and then realizing it.

They’d nailed down the first minute of his short program by the time their slot was up. They stepped into the showers, deep in discussion about whether or not to make dinner reservations, just to be sure.

By the time they got home, full and happy and a little tipsy, Yuuri was pushing Viktor backwards into the apartment in a desperate heat. His hands were already pushing up under Viktor’s shirt, his bare fingers ghosting over Viktor’s ribs, and Viktor was trembling beneath his touch, muffling his gasps and moans in Yuuri’s mouth, pulling him closer with one hand splayed across the small of his back.

“Oh my god,” Viktor breathed, “this is the longest we’ve ever gone.”

Yuuri responded by pressing deeper into their kiss, falling into Viktor as they collapsed on the couch and pulling Viktor’s legs up around his waist. They kissed long and unhurried, but no less hot and thirsty, until having clothes between them became too uncomfortable and Viktor pulled him into the bedroom.

Viktor fell on the bed with a breathy giggle, clutching at Yuuri’s hips as he stepped out of his pants. Yuuri discarded his shirt and socks and climbed on top of him, kissing his chest and letting the skin bruise between his teeth.

His phone rang. He pulled Viktor’s hips up into his lap and folded over him to kiss his neck, a demanding heat pooling between his legs, begging toward Viktor, pulsing with his heartbeat. He lapped at Viktor’s soft skin hungrily, and Viktor babbled some loud affirmation through gasping breaths. Yuuri broke away for a moment to reach for the bedstand when his phone rang a second time.

“I should probably get it,” he said, fumbling to find his phone.

He didn’t recognize the number beyond Russia’s +7 country code, but he answered just the same.

“H-hello?” he stammered, trying to even out his breathing. 

He nearly choked when Yuri’s voice sounded from the other end.

“Yuuri?” His voice was stripped of its usual derision and he sounded incredibly small from the other side of the phone.

“Yurio!” Yuuri gasped, staring wide-eyed at Viktor. “Where are you? Are you okay?”

There was some kind of muffled commotion going on behind Yuri on the other end. The teen laughed nervously.

“I—uh—shit. I may have gotten into some trouble. I…think I need your help.”

* * *

The car was absolutely silent as the three skaters sped down the highway, the air unbearably thick and heavy with unacknowledged tension. Something unsavory and scary was brewing all around Yuuri, visible in the set of Viktor’s eyes on the road ahead and entirely present in the persistent, impatient tap of Yuri’s thumb against his phone screen.

The tires screeched as Viktor jerked the car into the exit lane, riding the curve of the off-ramp at a speed just beyond Yuuri’s comfort level. The Japanese man was vaguely aware, with his limited knowledge of St. Petersburg streets, that they were no longer headed for Yuri’s apartment.

This area was much more residential than the central city block where the three of them lived, so close to the arena that they could walk there. They rolled past trees and large, sprawling yards with beautiful gardens, and _shit_. Yuuri should have known exactly where they were headed.

 _Oi. Please don’t… ”_ Yuri’s voice sounded just as small as it had on the phone earlier that night, but with an intensity that burned just beneath the surface, as if just working up the courage to speak caused him to force the words through gritted teeth. _“Don’t fucking do this right now.”_

Viktor pulled down a long, paved driveway that dragged them out, away from the street, coming to a stop next to a familiar black towncar. He turned the car off and the three of them sat in silence for—according to the dashboard clock—five whole minutes.

Viktor’s fits of unreasonable anger were loud and demonstrative and spiteful.

Viktor’s fits of reasonable anger, however, were silent. Gut-wrenching. Absolutely justified.

Broad, muscular shoulders were shaking in the driver’s seat.

Dark splatters of silent tears spotted tan slacks.

“How…” Viktor quavered. If he were unreasonably angry, the pause that followed would have been for dramatic effect. But Yuuri watched him working against the tears, screwing up his face, teeth digging into his lower lip. “Do you have any _idea_ , Yura, how _worried_ we were!?” He slammed his hand down on the steering wheel. _“ How dare you._ How _dare_ you pull that idiotic stunt when just this morning you left Yakov waiting and worrying, after he’s been nothing but patient with you! How _dare_ you risk losing your sponsors, losing your _career_ over a stupid bar fight?!”

“I don’t want to—“

“— _well I do!”_ Viktor snapped, wheeling his head around, wild eyes flashing pure ice at the back seat. “Never, in six years, have I seen you act so unbelievably _stupid!_ What on _earth_ were you thinking?! What could have _possibly_ been so important that you would act so recklessly?”

_Silence._

“You have no clue how much danger you put yourself in. He could have seriously injured you. He could have _killed you_.”

“Please,” Yuri cried, “I want to go home!”

Viktor’s face went crimson, so much so that Yuuri was sure he was going to yell again. But instead, he sucked in a lungful of air and let it stream out through his nostrils, eyes pressed shut.

“After _that?_ Absolutely not." He was putting every effort into keeping his tone calm and even, and the effect was eerie, almost threatening. “No, I will carry you in if I have to, and if you don’t tell Yakov exactly why your name is going to be _trending_ tomorrow morning … why he’s going to have to spend every free moment tomorrow making amends with your sponsors, then I will do it myself, but either way, you will be there." He turned back, staring down the teen with cold blue eyes. “Do you understand? _Look at me, Yura.”_

Yuri peeled back his bangs and dared a glance up at Viktor, wincing.

“ _Don't you get it?_ He’ll find out before you even wake up, courtesy of the internet and the local news.”

“I don’t care,” Yuri whispered. “I don’t care what anyone thinks.”

“Good,” Viktor grumbled. “Then go and tell him _now_ so he can help you do something about it.”

Yuri’s heavy boot slammed down on the back of Yuuri’s seat in response, just above the Japanese man’s shoulder, making him jump. “Katsudon, tell your husband to take me home.”

The request was manipulative and desperate, and any other day Yuuri would be annoyed. But there wasn’t time for that. There wasn’t even enough time to give pity. Viktor was right.

“Uh—I, uh…I think Yakov will know what to do best in this situation, Yurio. He’s been dealing with this stuff for almost half a century." He turned to face the teen, wincing a bit at the sight of his swollen face and hoping it didn’t show. “He loves you, just like we do. We’re not going to let you face this alone. Please, just go." 

* * *

It was a long night. Yakov rained down hard on his student with all the fire and fury of a parent defied while Viktor and Yuuri sat and watched in grim, sympathetic silence. By the time the shouting subsided, it was nearly dawn, and Yuuri had to leave Viktor behind to let Makka out.

Damage control was an all-day affair. The click of the front door announced Viktor’s return sometime around sunset; dusky pinks and oranges spilled across the floor from the open window. He was less agitated, but a quick glance over the shoulder told Yuuri volumes about the disquiet that remained. Viktor sulked back into the kitchen, eyes low and rimmed with telltale red, shoulders hunched and tense. He sank into the chair, hand clenched tight around a fistful of silver hair. As he settled, he dragged his hand down over his face, covering his eyes, forehead wrinkled and lips drawn tight into a grimace. Yuuri watched him from the stove, absently stirring his pot of spicy mackerel soup. He saw remorse in every inch of Viktor’s body. He wanted to comfort him immediately, make it okay, dissipate the stifling air that had accumulated since they’d gotten the call from Yuri. But at this point, what was there to do that Yakov hadn’t already spent a sleepless night handling?

They hadn’t had the chance to buy any fresh vegetables yet. Yuuri dug through the freezer for something green. He settled on brussels sprouts and made quick work of throwing together a side to fill his end of the silence that hung between him and Viktor in the room.

When the bowls and vegetables had joined the soup on the table Yuuri sat, letting his hand rest on Viktor’s free one. Viktor’s fingers curled around his into a tight squeeze.

“I bought him a pizza and took him home,” he said, unmoving. “I acted… unreasonably.”

Unable to resist the warm meal in front of him, Viktor sat up, then hunched over his bowl, breathing deeply. He moved as if to start eating but his hand seemed to fail to pick up the spoon.

“What am I supposed to do now?” he asked quietly. His eyes, as he looked pleadingly up at Yuuri, were not the clear blue of sunless skies, but the icy blue of frozen seas. Yuuri wished, a little childishly, he could smooth out the wrinkles of his husband’s furrowed brow, but instead reached out and brushed his thumb against Viktor’s cheek.

“You’re supposed to give him space, Vitya,” he said. He’d practiced, the entire time the other was out skating, going over what was important and reciting the words aloud into the empty apartment. “You’re supposed to let him come to you. It will take time. We were there for him when he needed us, but especially after last night, he’s going to need to work through the next bit himself. It might not even be in time to compete, but we will manage. You, me, and Yurio." The words cut into Viktor, causing tears to spill down pale cheeks, and Yuuri thought his heart might explode in his chest. His chair whined against the floor as he scooted over, closing the distance between them, opening his arms to Viktor who fell into them without hesitation. “You fucked up, Mr. Katsuki-Nikiforov. But do you really think you can scare him away for good?” He brushed back silver bangs and painted a line of kisses across Viktor’s hairline.

“I just want him there for my last season,” Viktor whispered into his shoulder. Yuuri smiled into his temple and drew him closer, ghosting his fingers along the older man’s side to soothe him.

“He’ll be there. I believe he will. We can’t force him to be better, Viktor. He’s grieving. And part of grieving is picking up and continuing on. But no one can make that choice for Yurio but Yurio. And when he does, we’ll be there. Right?”

He could fee Viktor’s smile against his skin. He broke away, reaching up to wipe away the somber tears from his husband’s cheeks. God, he hoped he was doing the right thing.

**Author's Note:**

> Art was by the lovely and ridiculously talented [KLY](http://toastibo.tumblr.com). Thank you so much for the collab!
> 
> And an amazed, endlessly-grateful thank-you to izzyisozaki for not only beta-ing but helping me shorten this piece to 30% its original length to fit my max wc! It was weird, but uh, we did it!
> 
> I post all fic updates to [my Tumblr](http://kingfisherunion.tumblr.com) and [my Twitter](http://twitter.com/snarkybreeze) along with RB/RTs and general shitposts.
> 
> You can find KLY on [Tumblr](http://toastibo.tumblr.com) and [Instagram](http://www.instagram.com/toastboy88)
> 
> Kudos, comments, and shares are greatly appreciated - be sure to give all the love to KLY for the _amazing_ art!!!


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